


Promises Served On Silver Tongues

by FictionPenned



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e09 And the Woman Clothed with the Sun…, Gen, Late Night Conversations, References to canonical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28208502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: "What are you thinking, Abigail?" Hannibal asks, his accent guiding the words into a dance.Although the man occupies the space directly across from her, Abigail does not so much as glance up at him when he speaks. Her fingers tighten upon the cup of tea clasped within her hands -- absorbing its warmth and claiming it for her own -- and her eyes remain firmly fixed on the dark liquid contained within, even when a ripple of movement disturbs her reflection in its surface and morphs her face into something entirely unrecognizable.She is not willing to rip open her chest and reveal her heart to Hannibal in its entirety -- such a thing would require forgetting the many, many unfortunate souls who have graced their dinner table -- but when she finally musters up a reply, she does choose to at least brush up against the truth."I was just thinking that it's been a long time since I've been outside."Written for Writing Rainbow Silver
Relationships: Abigail Hobbs & Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7
Collections: Writing Rainbow Silver





	Promises Served On Silver Tongues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inquisitor_tohru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/gifts).



There are times when Abigail does not mind being a secret. 

It is liberating to find herself freed from the obligations that come alongside high-profile victimhood. No longer must she field requests from journalists or questions from investigators or awkward stares from random people who pass her on the street. There are no journalists in her life anymore, no investigators, and no streets -- only books and drawings and late night conversations with Hannibal when the curtains of the study are drawn and Abigail is permitted to abandon the safety of the basement. 

Of course, there are plenty of things that she misses, too -- plenty of moments when she is so overwhelmed with longing that she would rather risk death than remain here.   
  
Moments like now, for instance.

She misses laughing with her friends in the school parking lot. She misses walking through the abandoned aisles of department stores and idly running her hand across racks and racks of clothes that she'll never buy and never wear. Most of all, she misses sitting in blinds at sunrise and drinking in deep breaths of chilly autumn air. 

Though she did not care for the more visceral aspects of hunting, she has found that doesn't particularly like being hunted, either. 

Perhaps there is a grey, liminal space that exists between those two extremes, and perhaps there are people who have succeeded in making a home for themselves there, but given her current circumstances, such peace seems to be out of Abigail's reach. 

She must either commit herself fully to being a hunter, or become someone else's prey. 

It is a choice that Hannibal has stressed time and a time again, and a choice that she tries to avoid contemplating whenever possible. It is easier to think about simple things -- high school and guilt and autumn leaves -- than to lose herself in the twisting labyrinth of Hannibal's philosophy. 

"What are you thinking, Abigail?" Hannibal asks, his accent guiding the words into a dance. 

Although the psychiatrist occupies the space directly across from her, Abigail does not so much as glance up at him when he speaks. Her fingers tighten upon the cup of tea clasped within her hands -- absorbing its warmth and claiming it for her own -- and her eyes remain firmly fixed on the dark liquid contained within, even when a ripple of movement disturbs her reflection in its surface and morphs her face into something entirely unrecognizable. 

She is not willing to rip open her chest and reveal her heart to Hannibal in its entirety -- such a thing would require forgetting the many, many unfortunate souls who have graced their dinner table -- but when she finally musters up a reply, she does choose to brush up against the truth, at least. 

"I was just thinking that it's been a long time since I've been outside." 

There is a tinkle of porcelain against porcelain as Hannibal sets his own cup of tea aside, focusing his entire attention on his ward. 

"It is an aspect of the human psyche to desire to be one with nature. People have long mythologized that man was crafted from the earth itself, and when we die, we find ourselves returned to it."

Abigail nods, however, she is somewhat detached from the gesture. "I guess." 

A long silence settles between them, interrupted only by the rustle of expensive fabrics as Hannibal leans forward. 

"Would you like to return home, Abigail?" 

Abigail's gaze snaps upward, seeking out Hannibal's own in the intimate gloom. Her surprise is tainted only by an unshakable undercurrent of wariness and suspicion. Hannibal may have rescued her from a life of imprisonment and helped her hide her crimes, but that does not mean that she is out of reach of his wicked teeth and sharpened talons. 

Hannibal is clever. He sets traps -- both physically and linguistically -- and she must constantly remain vigilant, lest she find herself stuck in one. 

"Do you mean six-feet-under return home or home-home?" 

Abigail means it as a serious question, but Hannibal dismisses it with an amused chuckle. 

"There are several modes of therapy that one can only engage with when present at the site of a formative trauma. I believe that we may find some of them helpful in our ongoing quest to make peace with your past participation in your father's crimes." 

Hannibal continues to speak, but Abigail is no longer listening. Her ears are filled only with the sound of her racing heart. She longs for open roads and towering forests and the brisk chill of the wind against her bare face. Despite her fear of Hannibal's capabilities and what her future might look like should she continue to remain under his care, she is more than willing to pay whatever price this trip requires of her. 

"Yes," she says, word passing between her lips in a breathless, desperate rush. "I want to go home."

There is something quietly sinister in the way that Hannibal tilts his head and sweeps his eyes over Abigail in her entirety, as if his is evaluating whether or not she is worthy of the privilege of this trip, worry of his trust and his legacy, but Abigail shoves the dark thought aside. It can be dealt with later, once she's returned to the overwhelming solitude of the basement. For now, she allows herself to be entirely consumed with the promise of getting to return to the world that she left behind, however briefly. 

Hannibal merely smiles as he settles back in his chair and reclaims his drink. "Excellent. I look forward to our journey." 

Abigail, too, drops her gaze back to her tea, her nerves and desperation and excitement threatening to consume her entirely. 

It does not occur to her that she might find herself passing a point of no return while in Minnesota, cutting ties with the uncertainty of her past and being reborn as a hunter. A killer. A cold-blooded murderer. 

Instead, she is consumed only by thoughts of all the tiny, mundane things that she would like to do once fresh air fills her love and her feet occupy familiar ground. 


End file.
